Chapter 7
Hilary Winthrop
My palm stings almost as hard as my clit throbs.
I stare into Connor Pen’s annoyingly handsome face as my handprint blooms red on his cheek.
“The answer is no, Mr. Pen. Not eight years ago. Not now. Not ever.”
My chest heaves as though I ran a hundred miles in high heels while balancing his dry cleaning in one hand and his coffee in another.
I’ve worked for him for eight miserable years. I coordinate every aspect of his life from his dry cleaning to his meetings with clients. He won’t last a day without me. He needs me.
I need him, too, but I’ll never say that out loud. The man is too proud, stubborn, and full of himself to see beyond his nose, and I’m too outspoken outside the workplace to deal with his shit in my personal business.
I cross my arms over my chest, grit my teeth as his eyes flick down to my cleavage, and end the discussion with as much dignity as I can muster.
“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Pen, but I must decline. Bring it up again and I’ll quit.”
I grab my purse, spin on my heel, and stomp down the hall.
Even as I step out onto the street, regret and fear churn in my stomach.
Connor Pen never backs down from a challenge, and I just threw the most intriguing ultimatum at his feet.
He won’t let me go no matter how hard I fight, and I can’t leave without losing everything.
I hate him. I need him.
I’m trapped.
For the first time in my life, I walk the streets of New York City without tracking my surroundings. A mugging—or even a stabbing—might be a welcome distraction from the thoughts tumbling through my mind.
I slapped my boss. My sister needs money for her clinical trial. Aisha and Momo won’t stay clean or healthy without my support. Everything I hold dear relies on my job, but I may have just fucked it all up.
I wander without a set destination as I search for a solution, even though I know on both an instinctual and a logical level there’s only one solution.
I may resist for a little while, but even my best laid plans—avoidance and professionalism—will eventually give way to his control, and I’ll give in to temptation and become Connor Pen’s plaything.
Self-reproach eats away at my insides. My mother’s words haunt me. Even when my stepfather hurt her, she made excuses for him. I swore I would never end up with a man who was controlling and manipulative, yet here I am, shackled to a boss who has no respect for me at all.
He wants to buy me like a whore.
All the late nights I worked beside him, the busy days I coordinated for him, all the stress and humiliation I suffered for him mean absolutely nothing. He’ll never see me as anything more than a dispensable side character. An employee he can stick his dick in. A slut he can buy.
I stop with my toes on a familiar crack in the sidewalk. An odd mix of shame and relief arrows through me, and I shift my gaze to my body.
I have nothing but my small purse over my shoulder. No change of clothes. No shoes.
This fancy dress and these ridiculous heels don’t belong in this section of the city, but they’re much better than what I wore the first time I found this two-story brick building.
As a high school dropout and foster care runaway, I had limited job opportunities. Staggering into the old gym to escape a group of thugs ended up being my luckiest break.
I sigh and swing open the tempered-glass front door. The little bell jingles. My heels click on the linoleum tiles.
I freeze in alarm.
The out-of-order sign is no longer on the elevator. A new clock sits above the old metal mailboxes built into the foyer wall. Fresh paint coats the walls, and the linoleum shines like new, except the gouges around the bottom of the stairs and the elevator assure me it’s the same old tiles.
I swallow my shock and continue forward to the office. True fear grips me as I take in the electronics lining the wall. The logo at the bottom of the screens is too familiar.
Worms crawl in my stomach and nausea rolls from my toes to the top of my head.
Connor Pen being part of my friend’s wedding rehearsal was bad enough. This is a million times worse.
He’s infecting the most precious parts of my life. The walls close in around me as I envision him lounging between Aisha and Momo on my apartment couch, or worse, sitting at my sister’s bedside.
Before my terror spirals out of control, the sound of gloves thudding against the punching bag filters out from the end of the hall and breaks the silence.
I scold myself for getting so worked up over what’s most likely nothing. Connor Pen probably doesn’t even know this place exists. He doesn’t personally install our company’s security systems, nor does he oversee every new client.
I strut down the hall as though I own the place—I’ve spent more time here than anywhere else in my life—but hesitate when the person using the punching bag isn’t Mr. Carter.
Declan Buchanan, a man I know only because he’s on the outskirts of our work circle, takes in my wardrobe with a look of disgust, strips off a glove, pours a stream of liquid into his mouth from his fancy sports drink bottle, then puts his glove back on and resumes pounding on the bag.
Well, okay then. That’s the clearest fuck off I’ve ever received.
Too bad for him his opinion doesn’t matter to me. My consciousness brought me here because I need an outlet.
I eye the machines and scowl. Half are new. Even while I understand and am happy Mr. Carter is improving the place, I don’t like the change. It feels threatening. Part of me worries I’ll lose another home, even if this place was never technically mine.
I shake off my musings and decide against cardio, weights, and machines.
I need to hit something.
After kicking off my heels, dropping my purse onto the floor, and kicking both between the stair stepper and the wall, I run through a quick warm-up and stretch before grabbing gloves and squaring off with the speed bag.
I start slow, letting my thoughts and worries drift away with every punch, until the bag blurs as it swings to and fro.
Sweat glistens on my brow and my triceps burn, but I change tempo and strike positions, never missing a beat until the world fades away.
Nothing exists beyond my gloves and the musical pounding of leather meeting leather.
With my mind blank and lungs on fire, I slow in tiny increments, wanting the euphoria to last as long as possible, until I reach my original pace. I stop the bag’s swing and disinfect it with a wipe before moving to the standing sparring dummy.
Despite the limitations of my dress, I enjoy a few minutes of destroying the training mannequin in as many ways as possible. I break his nose, shatter his knees, bury my fist in his throat, and kick his crotch. By the time my fury fades to a dull roar, no part of him remains unscathed.
“I’d hate to be the guy who pissed her off,” an unfamiliar voice says.
I follow through with a knee to the balls, almost ripping the slit in my dress in the process, before turning around.
Declan sits on the bench beside the locker room door with not quite approval—nor acceptance—in his eyes, but at least the hostile glare is gone. I shrug and rip the hook and loop strap of my right glove open with my teeth.
“A bit overdressed there, eh, missy?”
I fill my lungs until my ribs ache and aim a genuine smile at the only man I trust. Mr. Carter stands between the two nearest treadmills with his perpetual scowl in place and his arms crossed over his chest.
I take a few more deep, centering breaths before responding.
“You’ve seen me in worse, and we don’t always get to choose what we’re wearing in a fight, so why not practice in this? It’s not like I have to pay for dry cleaning and the important bits are covered.”
A rare smirk crosses Mr. Carter’s face.
“Your left hook looks stronger,” he says.
Warmth flows through me at his praise.
“Thank you, sir.”
“It’s been a while since we sparred,” he scolds.
Self-defense class is usually Saturday night, but last week’s was canceled for Audrey’s wedding rehearsal, and for several weeks before then, I haven’t stayed after for a sparring session. I don’t know what drives Connor Pen to work so hard, but his crazy schedule drains me.
I tuck my glove under my arm, pull my hand free, and unfasten my other glove.
“You’re right, we haven’t. I’m s—” I stop before I apologize and give a lame excuse.
Mr. Carter can sense a lie twenty miles away, and he hates fake apologies.
No matter how much I miss our sessions, I know deep down canceling them was the right thing to do at the time.
It would’ve been disrespectful to not give him my best.
“I’m not in the right headspace for sparring today.
” After the grueling work week and Connor’s…
I don’t even know what to call our interaction in the changing room.
He didn’t hurt me. There was no violence.
My feminine self blissed out at being in his arms even as I fought for freedom.
The way he overpowered me so easily had me so worked up I nearly jumped him.
Visions of tumbling to the floor and mounting him still half-dressed had me milliseconds away from combusting.
Only for him to deliver the most demeaning and humiliating proposition known to womankind.
Ice still encases my soul, but the burn in my body tempers the pain.
“I don’t think I’ll be ready tomorrow either.”
I take pride in my steady voice despite the emotions whipping through me. Mr. Carter’s face sours, but he nods as a reward for my truthfulness before eyeing Declan.
“Class begins in five. You staying or going?”
Delight sweeps through me. I haven’t been to a Friday night class in years.
Declan opens his mouth to respond, but the first group of preteens bursts through the front door in blast of sound. The surly man exits the building through the side door as though his feet caught fire.
“Coward,” Mr. Carter mumbles under his breath.
A snigger escapes me.